Children of the Kindly West
by A Nameless Traveler
Summary: A hobbit can always rely on his Good Sense. That's what they say. Because it will tell you things that no other peoples in Middle-Earth would notice. But no one mentioned a hobbit's Good Sense makes him a perfect companion on mad adventures in the eyes of certain, equally mad, wizards. Thorin/Bilbo
1. Chapter 1: Always Trust the Good Sense

**Title:** Children of the Kindly West  
**Author:** ANT-chan  
**Fandom:** The Hobbit  
**Rating/Genre:** Romance/General/M  
**Pairings:** Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins  
**Summary:** A hobbit can always rely on his Good Sense. That's what they say. Because it will tell you things that no other peoples in Middle-Earth would notice. But no one mentioned a hobbit's Good Sense makes him a perfect companion on mad adventures in the eyes of certain, equally mad, wizards. **M/M**

* * *

**Children of the Kindly West**

_Chapter 1: Always Trust the Good Sense_

* * *

It goes something like this:

Unlike the other peoples of Middle-Earth, hobbits could not trace their origins with any degree of certainty. Long ago, perhaps, they'd had records of how exactly they had come to be. But those records had been lost or forgotten by the passage of time, passed into legend until no one was sure what was fact and what was myth. And, quite frankly, the hobbits didn't mind that so much. They were far less concerned about how they began than they were with how they lived and continued to live. The fact that they did not have a known creator – as with the elves and men with Eru and the dwarrows with Aulë – didn't bother them altogether much. This didn't stop them from "adopting" their Green Ladies anyway.

Yavanna Kementári - the Queen of the Earth and the harvest. Vána the Ever-Young – Lady of Spring and Flowers. The Green Sisters. While hobbits were not ones to spurn the providence of any Valar, it was the Green Ladies they gave their prayers and affection to. It wasn't their Ladies who created them, but it was they that the hobbits loved most dearly.

Whether it was this connection that gave the hobbits the gift of their Good Sense, or whether the Good Sense had led them to the Green Ladies in the first place was something of a mystery. It was the true chicken or the egg riddle, and there were as many legends of its origin as there were hobbits in the Shire. Hobbits from the Far Downs to Bree were known to debate the subject when all gossip and small-talk had been spent. Which was more often than you would think. There were only so many times Miriela Grubb's new, expensive festival dress from Bree could be brought up in conversation, after all.

At any rate, their Good Sense was something that hobbits have had longer than memory. The world spread out before them in twinkling lights and little humming trills, the very land beneath their feet and all living things awash in gentle light and sound. As far as it was understood, hobbits were the only ones to see the world this way. The men of Bree certainly didn't.

How they could stand to live without it, no hobbit would ever know. A hobbit could always rely on his Good Sense. That's what they said, anyway.

It was his Good Sense that brought Bilbo Baggins out that sunny morning for a smoke. There was nothing quite like watching the Shire come alive before his eyes, the constant thrum of life crescendoing into a buzz of activity and light and the low, soothing hum of the gently rolling hills. Even he, whose Good Sense was not particularly sharp (unlike his gardener, Hobson Gamgee, and his young son, Hamfast, who could both spot sprouts lingering beneath the soil from three hills away) found awe in the purity and life of the Shire. Bilbo spent the better part of his morning sitting at his garden bench, blowing smoke rings and enjoying all the Shire had to offer.

He had closed his eyes, blocking out the vivid green landscape in favor of basking in the soft light and thrum of the Shire, when the disturbance came. A towering form of brilliant light pierced through the gentle presence of the Shire, and Bilbo cringed, gasped, and choked on the sudden taste of sweet, acrid smoke. His eyes popped open, just in time to see that rather than waving away cloud of smoke, he was swatting at the wispy form of a butterfly. Bilbo gaped at it, watching it flit away from his face, quickly dispersing into smoke and then disappearing forever, before turning his eyes to the man before him.

He had to squint as he craned his head up and up and _up_. (Why did Big Folk have to be so _blasted tall?_) The old man looked shabby and well worn, dressed all in gray from head to foot and his long beard and hair shaggy – but clean. To a man he would seem completely unassuming but for his keen, twinkling blue eyes, sharp and clear in his lined face.

But to a hobbit, there was no hiding that something was far from ordinary about him. Bilbo resisted the urge to rub his eyes or to look away from the shimmering light emanating off this newcomer. It was warm and even gentle, but so intense that it was hard to look at him.

Bilbo idly batted a wisp away as it detached from the man's light and curiously floated towards him. "G-Good morning," he said, trying to keep his tone pleasant.

"What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"

Bilbo's mouth dropped open. "I—A-All of them at once… I suppose." He found himself chewing on his pipe stem, wanting desperately to make his excuses and dash back into Bag-End. But his manners would not let him, and so he hesitantly asked, "Can I… help you?"

He should have just followed his instincts, come to think of it. A hobbit's Good Sense was rarely wrong.

* * *

_Confounded dwarrows._

Dwarrows _in his home!_ Twelve of them, to be exact. Twelve rowdy dwarrows trodding mud into his floors, decimating his pantry, _and throwing his mother's favorite pottery around the halls!_

"Please put that down!" Bilbo squeaked, following the course of a plate sailing through the air. He, of course, was not fast enough to stop the dwarf – one of the younger looking ones, whose light was erratic and pulsing and far too active for his liking. All he received for his trouble was a hearty laugh, and Bilbo had nary a moment to move aside before a knife – _a knife! _– went zipping by, caught deftly in the dwarf's hands and tossed along without care.

A scream was building in his chest, high and panicky and only stopped by his good Baggins manners. _Dwarrows in Bag-End!_ And one blasted wizard who had invited them to his home, without so much as a by your leave, and had the nerve to stand there laughing at his distress.

And all the singing about destroying his cooking and dinner ware was _not _amusing in the least!

Bilbo was dizzy by the time he rounded the corner into the kitchen, only to find the dishes clean, intact, and stacked neatly on the worktable. He could barely hear the laughter around him, and swayed when the dwarf with the hat nudged him with a wide smile.

There was too much. The physicality of his unwanted guests would have been overwhelming as it was, but there was the added irritant to his Good Sense. Bilbo was being pressed in on all sides. Too much light, too much sound. Not the soft chimes of a hobbit either, but a hard discordant ring like the clanging of a thousand anvils all at once. The cacophony filled the room as the dwarrows' light expanded out – quite _rudely _too! It was suffocating.

The knock at the door actually came as a relief. The raucous sensory overload dimmed just a little as the dwarrows quieted. "He's here," he barely heard Gandalf say. The wizard stood, but Bilbo was already hurrying from the kitchen, eager for even the slightest chance of fresh air and space.

As it turned out, the idea was just as laughable as it sounded. Bilbo was hopeful for all of a few seconds as he raced for the door. And then the dread hit. Even with the door closed it was immediately apparent that there was yet another dwarf on his doorstep. It was almost tangible, rippling across his already addled senses in a way that was entirely disconcerting. He hesitated long enough that the others wandered into the foyer, stifling him once more. His head swam.

'_Blast it, Bilbo Baggins, your father would be appalled at your manners! Open the door!'_ It was horrendously impolite to leave someone out on the doorstep at night. Even if they were just one more unwanted guest. Bilbo nodded to himself, fixing a grim sort of smile onto his face before reaching for the knob.

He quickly regretted it.

The first warning was the light spilling into the room the instant the door cracked open. Little darting wisps that curled around the edge, fighting to get into his home, was never a good sign. Confounded dwarrows and their rude, insistent selves! He wrenched the door completely open with more force than was strictly proper, but he just wanted this to be _over with, thank you. _And was swiftly overtaken by the burst of light and sound.

If he thought the others were overpowering, this was nothing short of _breathtaking._ In the worst of ways. The space around Bilbo closed in as the newcomer's presence sought to fill the room, taking, _demanding. _As if he owned the bloody place. It would have set Bilbo's teeth on edge if he was not suddenly fighting to draw breath. He could not even see the dwarf as his Good Sense was flooded – couldn't hear the words being spoken to him over the roar of a single chime echoing endlessly, as if a bell had been wrung in a cavernous abyss that would never dim but just keep _magnifying—_

The world, thankfully, gave way to blissful darkness.

**End Chapter 1. Walk on, Traveler of Worlds.**

* * *

Hullo there!

The headcanon that hobbits are connected to nature in more than just culture has always been a favorite of mine, and seeing Bilbo immediately sense the magic of Rivendell and Mirkwood in the Extended Edition and the new movie inspired this fic!

I'm going to try to keep some of the canon scenes, or at least the bits of it that won't change in the fic, brief. Since we've all read and watched those scenes over and over!

Thank you very much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2: A Melody in the Night

**Title:** Children of the Kindly West  
**Author:** ANT-chan  
**Fandom:** The Hobbit  
**Rating/Genre:** Romance/General/M  
**Pairings:** Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins  
**Summary:** A hobbit can always rely on his Good Sense. That's what they say. Because it will tell you things that no other peoples in Middle-Earth would notice. But no one mentioned a hobbit's Good Sense makes him a perfect companion on mad adventures in the eyes of certain, equally mad, wizards. **M/M**

**Special thanks to Just a cat, ScauldronDragonTrainer, C Elise, overtherisingstar, OdysseusWanders, randomplotbunny, Akimis, SweetHumingbird, Pucaroo, Noah of Silence, mentallyinsanefangirl13, obsessiveicequeen, lyssa loo, DeathLadyShinigami, LuckySee12, ObsidianEbony, cheshirekitten909, ElvnAngl, Miss Manna, lexisis, The Homunculi Twins, ans90jas10, Whizkers, Sailor Light Angel, demonsinger, Ashenkay, LeeBecky06, 23BlackRose, Tsume12, Chiyo The Silver Witch, DanceoftheCrystalRose1993, redroses100, ShinboiTwin05, zero13noir21absoluteandcrimson, Shinigami92, KJC2025, yaoiaddict101, ThePrincessDragon, BF001, Jutsu Dream, viovio, Lupa Eyed Azule, SNHP Killer J.D, Dzykishi, richgirl22, Persefone88, kanakoyuki, debzerechillin, QwillWillWrite, Cole, LazyGirl2013, vamprav, MerlinofGryffindor, K.S.T.M, lk21413, and hanna00lalla** for reviewing, favoriting, and following! There's so many of you! :O

* * *

**Children of the Kindly West**

_Chapter 2: A Melody in the Night_

* * *

"_If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!"_

Bilbo wasn't sure if it was the shout or the prickling of his skin as a pure wave of magic washed over him that awoke him. Though it could have been the pounding headache instead. It certainly wasn't his favorite way to wake up, cold and clammy with his entire body tingling uncomfortably and his head absolutely _throbbing._ '_What…?' _He tried to ask what was going on, and why there were so many people that he could feel in his home, but his tongue felt swollen his mouth.

"Oh! Welcome back, Master Hobbit," said a voice very close to him. He flinched and opened his eyes. And wished he hadn't. The light coming off the dwarf above him would have been interesting in any other situation. Even friendly if he were alone. But at the moment it was only eye-searing in combination with the light filling his home. Bilbo clenched his eyes shut again in an attempt to block out the light and the pain, futile though it was.

His groan was very loud in the sudden silence. "Wha…" he cleared his throat, not liking the gritty feeling of his tongue. "What happened?"

"Why, y'fainted, Master Hobbit." The dwarf – who was grasping Bilbo's shoulder to help him upright – chuckled. "Dropped inna dead faint right in fron'a Thorin. Now, I know he's gotta glare on 'im that'll make a grown dwarf cry – seen it happen, m'self! But never have seen it send someone into a faint." The dwarf's words trailed off in a laugh, making the forming blush on Bilbo's face only deepen.

He had fainted upon opening the door. Not only in front of one newcomer dwarf, but also _twelve uninvited dwarrows and one wizard._

Well, that was embarrassing.

"Bilbo, my lad, are you alright?" Gandalf had shuffled forward, this time bending at the waist to avoid knocking his head on the chandelier.

Bilbo rubbed a hand over his face. "Yes, yes, I-" The light was still too bright. Too insistent. His head throbbed. He waved a hand vaguely. "It's just all, you know-"

"Ah, of course. Let me…" With his great hand he reached down to help Bilbo to his feet, and as he did the light around Bilbo dimmed. The echoing chimes faded until they were somewhat bearable. It left the hobbit blinking around at his guests, now being able to see them clearly for the first time. "How's that?"

"Much… much better. Thank you, Gandalf."

"Yes, well. Dwarrows are a vibrant and intense bunch. I just had not expected them to be too much for hobbits."

He should have thought of _that _before inviting thirteen of them into Bilbo's home. Bilbo pursed his lips to keep from saying those very words to his mother's dearest friend. But he was thankful for whatever magic the wizard had performed, and nodded. His head still ached, but now that his Good Sense had been reined in, he could look upon his guests properly.

They were a ragtag bunch, rugged and travel worn with many of them dressed in furs, leathers, and heavy, thick fabrics. Some were more well-dressed, their surcoats of finer material and embroidered with intricate geometrical patterns on the hems. Even still, their attire was worlds away from what a hobbit would wear, making them appear even more outlandish and intimidating in the case of more than a few of them. The newest of his guests was particularly so, even more so than the first dwarf to step inside his home, with the way he was staring. They were all staring, actually. But this man seemed to have mastered cutting men down to size with merely a look. Making grown a dwarf cry indeed…

It certainly didn't help that even with Gandalf's magic, the light coming off of him in ever expanding waves was making its best attempt to fill up the room and was more than a little distressing to Bilbo.

"I suppose it is time for some proper introductions. Bilbo, allow me to introduce…" he began gesturing to each dwarf in turn. "Fíli, Kíli… Óin, Glóin, Dwalin, Balin… Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… Dori, Nori, Ori… " Some nodded when their names were spoken, others bowed. It did little to keep Bilbo's head from spinning with the sudden influx of trying to match faces with names. Already he had forgotten which one was Fíli and which was Kíli. The one with the hat though, who had been by him when he awoke from his faint was Bofur. And the one with the axe embedded in his skull (as if he would forget _that_) was Bifur. The tall one who had arrived first was… Balin…?

"-and the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield."

The overly important looking dwarf who had arrived last stepped forward, his arms crossed over his chest. Embarrassment rose within him once more, reminded that he had fainted in front of the dwarf not a few short minutes ago. Bilbo stepped forward, politely clearing his throat. "B-Bilbo Baggins…" The greeting he'd been given by most of the dwarrows came back to him, and he gave a short little bow. "At your service."

Thorin Oakenshield only gazed at him, his expression stony.

"W-Well!" Bilbo said once the silence had stretched for one too many seconds. "W-What is it you were talking about when I woke up, Gandalf?"

"That you look more like a grocer than a burglar," Thorin Oakenshield cut in before the wizard could do so much as open his mouth.

The flash of utter outrage at the bank-handed statement rapidly dimmed as the words registered. Instead Bilbo was left sputtering, his mouth attempting to form words. "_B-B-Burglar?!_" he finally managed, his voice shrill. His head whipped to Gandalf so fast his headache became a piercing, hot point behind his eyes, his expression thunderous. Just _what _kind of game was the wizard playing - inviting dwarrows to his home and… and giving them the impression that he was some kind of _thief!_

Gandalf was doing his very best to remain unaffected by the conversation, but Bilbo caught the discreet cough and the way he squared his shoulders.

"Gandalf," he gritted out, "I _told _you-"

"Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?" Interrupted _yet again _by Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo's mouth clicked shut with a sharp tap. It was impossible to hide his glare this time. The dwarf had done nothing but be impolite and demanding in the few short moments since his arrival. And it was certainly the _height _of rudeness to mock one's host this way. Even for a dwarf, with all their love of skill in being warriors and craftsmen. Or perhaps especially rude to dwarrows, rather. "What's your weapon of choice? Axe or sword?"

Be it the headache or the events of the evening or the sheer amount of mocking in the dwarf's voice, but Bilbo found he could muster up his proper hobbit manners no longer. "Well, I do have some skill at conkers, _if you must know,_" he shot back, sarcasm dripping from his voice. But the group broke out into, not entirely kind, chuckles, and even Thorin Oakenshield's mouth curved derisively. His courage withered. "But I fail to see why that's… relevant."

"I thought as much." And Bilbo had not felt so small and insignificant in all his life, he thought.

"Now, now," Gandalf spoke over the dwarrows. His eyes turned to Thorin Oakenshield, solemn and firm. "You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this Company, and I have chosen Mister Baggins. The reasons I shall explain as we discuss our plans. I have waited to divulge the details of our quest to Mister Baggins until everyone had arrived."

More like the entire idea of a quest and the need for a burglar altogether!

And then Gandalf pinned him with a soothing smile before he could protest. "Bilbo, why don't you bring us some more light? And perhaps a meal for Master Oakenshield. He has traveled quite some distance, and I am sure he is hungry, hm?"

Neither was something he wanted to do, but off he went anyway. He at least waited until he was out of sight to grit his teeth and glare at nothing. He had only wanted a peaceful evening at home – a modest supper for one, and then to curl up in his armchair by the fire and read until he could barely keep his eyes open. Instead he was here in his empty pantry…

He glared at a cloud-like tendril of light that was seeking to creep its way into the room.

…With _this _whole mess. "Out, you. I don't even care who you belong to. Out!" he hissed, batting at it peevishly. Rather than disperse as normal smoke would, it seemed to cringe away from him and spark red – almost angrily, if Bilbo could dare to call it that. The changing of colors was not at all shocking. Hobbit souls did it from time to time, and so did the souls of men, if the occasional Ranger and the men of Bree were any indication. But when the light of hobbits sparked, it was a merry little thing. Almost like fireflies in the night, twinkling and darting and dancing around their bodies and the lights of those around them. Men's souls were not as active, but flickered like embers, strong and fleeting.

At the moment, Bilbo would have much preferred the souls of men to the souls of dwarrows. At least they didn't take up so much _bloody space. _Bilbo took to balancing the tray of extra candles along with some stew and ale (the only things left of his larder after the unexpected and highly unwanted party), using his free hand to clear a path through the veritable fog of spiritual light that filled the hall. This seemed to be a grand solution to his problem, for when he touched the smoke and the wisps with his displeasure in mind it shrank back with a torrent of red sparks.

"Serves you right," he muttered under his breath.

He stopped short before rounding the gentle curve of the main hall, his ears easily picking up the lowered voices of Gandalf and the dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield.

"You must trust me on this," Gandalf was saying.

Bilbo couldn't see the dwarf's reaction, but the long moment of brooding silence clearly wasn't good. "Very well," that dark, deep voice said at last. And how could he make _agreement _sound so dreadful? "We will do it your way." A beat of silence again, and then: "I cannot guarantee his safety."

"Understood."

"Nor will I be responsible for his fate."

The response to that came after far too many seconds for Bilbo's liking. "…Agreed."

His heart in his throat, Bilbo continued swiftly into the foyer, trying to mask the apprehension of what he had just heard. Gandalf was standing just where Bilbo had left him, in the tallest point of the foyer. The one called Thorin and white-haired, elderly dwarf whose name Bilbo could not remember were in the doorway of the dining room, wearing similar grim expressions. Though Thorin's was much more intimidating. Much, much more – as Bilbo's heart did made a fair attempt at hammering through his ribs when the dwarf's scowl darkened at the sight of him.

"Balin," he spoke in a sharp command, "give him the contract."

'_Oh, so that one's Balin. Then who was the other one?'_

Balin shook his head at Thorin's command, his expression dubious. A folded parchment was pushed into Bilbo's free hand. "It's just the usual: summary of out-of-pocket expenses. Time required. Remuneration. Funeral arrangements. So forth."

"F-Funeral arrangements?!"

"Ah, well." Gandalf laid a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, his smile so very kind and _understanding _that Bilbo rather wanted to smack him with the tray. "You can read through it after we discuss the purpose of the gathering, Bilbo. If you'll just come this way."

* * *

"Think furnace with wings!"

He was going to snatch the hat right off of the dwarf's head. By Yavanna, he was going to do it if Bofur _kept talking._ "Ohh…" Bilbo moaned miserably. He felt like he was being closed in again. His chest was tight.

"Flash a'light, searing pain, and then _poof! _You're nothin' more than a pile a'ash!"

Oh sweet Sisters, he was going to faint again. "Air!" he gasped. "I-I need air…!" Bilbo turned and stumbled from the corridor as fast as his shaking legs could carry him. How he even made it to the parlor without collapsing was beyond him. He let his knees give out just as he reached his favorite armchair, sinking down into it with a high, panicky sound. He did his best to block out the sudden chattering from the dining room two doors down, just focusing on taking deep breaths.

A dragon.

_A dragon!_

This had been insanity from the start – from a _wizard _showing up at his door to being besieged by a troupe of dwarrows! Not only that, but they seemed to have some sort of death wish. All this talk of facing a dragon over what? Some lost gold and jewels in a mountain? How was that in any way worth facing down a dragon?! A dragon that no one had any idea if it was still in the mountain, if he had heard correctly. It could have vacated or died in the past sixty years. Or it could be still resting within, ready to devour any dwarf that stupidly wandered in.

Or any hobbit.

"_Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him."_ Gandalf had said those words trying to convince the dwarrows of Bilbo's usefulness. But all it had done was cause the poor hobbit to want to run screaming from a room. Him! Face a _dragon. Alone._

Mad! All of them!

"Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo nearly shrieked. The wizard was standing in the archway, a cup of tea in his hands (bless him for that at least!) and a disappointed expression on his wizened face.

Whatever gratitude Bilbo had for the tea faded at that look.

"I'll be alright," he said shortly. "I just need to sit quietly for a moment." He took the warm mug the moment it was offered, and took a generous sip. And nearly choked upon finding it was heavily doctored with what tasted like his best brandy. Bilbo cleared his throat, doing his best to soothe the unexpected burn of it.

"You've been sitting quietly for far too long!" The stern remark from Gandalf caused his mouth to drop open in shock, unable to even begin to talk back as the wizard worked himself up into a tirade. "Tell me, when did _doilies _and your mother's dishes become so important to you? Why, I remember a young hobbit that was always running off in search of elves in the woods! And would stay out late, coming home after dark trailing… mud and twigs and fireflies." The hobbit bit the inside of his cheek as Gandalf began pacing. "A young hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire!"

That was all well and good for him to say. Not that the wizard had actually seen him much past childhood. Certainly not at all after his mother's passing. He had only known the, admittedly adventurous, little fauntling who greeted him with a child's war cry and a tiny wooden sword. Bilbo hadn't been that little hobbit for many years. His interest had turned inward, focusing on the ever growing contents of his study rather than gazing wistfully out over the hills and what could lay just beyond them.

"The world is not in your books and maps." Gandalf's voice cut through his thoughts, almost as if he'd read them. Bilbo turned his gaze to the towering wizard, sobering at the imploring look in the man's eyes. "It's out there." His eyes followed Gandalf's gesturing hand, out the window and into the night beyond. From here Bilbo could just barely see the light of the Shire all around them, peaceful and nurturing. And even though the presence was something he had known all his life, he could not deny that there had always been a sense of wonder at what might be even further out. Age had dimmed those flights of fancy – stressing all the reasons why a lone little hobbit _couldn't _strike out into the wide world.

But just maybe…

Realizing the turn his thoughts were taking, Bilbo glared down at the mug he was currently taking a sip of, his eyes going slightly crossed. Maybe drinking it wasn't the best idea, if it was letting such thoughts into his head. "A _dragon, _Gandalf!" he sputtered, as much for his own benefit as for the wizard's. "An… an adventure is one thing. This d-death wish is another!"

"Yes, Bilbo Baggins, a dragon. I didn't lie when I said why you were needed."

"Needed," Bilbo muttered. "If it is a hobbit you need, one of my Took cousins would have suited just as well. There's a few wanderlusting young ones left. You could have chosen any of them. I am a-a Baggins of Bag-End! I just can't go running off into the blue on _adventures!_" His voice hitched at the end of his declaration.

But Gandalf shook his head, moving to sit in the chair – a proper man-sized chair this time – across from him. "But _you _are also a Took, are you not? Did you know that…"

'_Not great, great, great-Uncle Bullroarer again,' _Bilbo inwardly groaned, tipping his head back on the chair. But alas, it was indeed the story of his most Tookish ancestor; one that Bilbo had heard a hundred times or more in his lifetime. As a child the story had excited him, only fueling his curiosity and wonder of the world. As an adult, the story was still fond, but no longer mentioned unless in mockery by the general populace of the Shire or from the grand tales told at Took family gatherings.

But to hear it used against him like this was a new level of irritating. He took a sip of his liberally spiked tea, using it as an excuse to tune the blasted wizard out. Until:

"…he swung his club so hard, it knocked the goblin king's head clean off and it sailed a hundred yards through the air, and went down a rabbit hole." That, however, had not ever been a part of the tales. Bilbo's eyes flicked back up, his brows furrowing. "And thus the battle was won. And the game of golf invented at the same time!"

"I…" the hobbit breathed out a short laugh. "I do believe you made that up."

"All good stories deserve embellishment, my boy. You'll have a tale or two of your own when you come back." The wizard regarded him for a few moments when Bilbo could find no response to that. The beseeching in his eyes was gone, and his bright soul was now calm, no longer shifting and reaching out over the room. (Though Gandalf's had never been so rude as to touch him as the dwarrows' had.) "In truth," Gandalf began again, his voice thoughtful, "there are many reasons why I have chosen you, Bilbo Baggins. The least of which being the connection with your mother, who was a very dear friend. I did not lie, as I said. You have a great deal to offer this quest, more than you could imagine. A hobbit is needed, and one with the right Sense."

"The right-" The air rushed out of Bilbo's lungs in a rush, and he sank further into his chair. Daft, this wizard was. Completely mad. If he wanted a hobbit with a powerful Good Sense, then he should have chosen someone else. Bilbo Baggins only considered himself mediocre in such things. Strictly normal, nothing special about his Good Sense at all. His was not suited for tending farms or extraordinary gardens like the Gamgees. It was not even suited for hunting or hearing the songs of the Shire particularly well. There were hobbits who could do much more than he if it was Good Sense Gandalf was looking for.

However much he tried to say that, though, the words would not come. Not with Gandalf's eyes quietly regarding him, assessing what he might have to say next. That gaze pierced through him; past all of the things he told himself about how adventuring was nonsense and right into the deeply buried parts of his childish desires. But no. He couldn't. "Can… Can you promise I will come back?" he murmured at last.

"No." Despite the chilling answer, Bilbo only found himself reassured be the honesty. The first honest answer he'd received of this whole debacle. "And if you do, you will not be the same."

"That's what I thought." Bilbo took his mug and stood, the smile on his face strained. "I'm sorry, Gandalf. You have the wrong hobbit." He left the parlour, refusing to let himself look back. Looking back would mean his defeat. Even if his hands were shaking as he clenched them around his cup. Neither could he meet the eyes of any dwarrow that he passed, though he did stop to tell the gray-haired dwarf with a complicated array of braids that the Company was welcome to the parlour and guest rooms and where they could find bedding if they needed it. It wasn't exactly becoming of a proper host, but Bilbo could not find the will to care at that moment. His head hurt from being bombarded, not only through his Good Sense but in all others as well, with the disastrous chain of events that made up his evening. All he wanted to do was lock himself in his bedroom and pray that the dwarrows would leave quickly and quietly by morning and take their rude souls with them.

Closing the door behind him once he made it to his room was almost as satisfying as the sun on a cool spring morning. The dwarrows had no reason to venture this far deep into Bag-End, and so their intrusive auras had not yet crept into this room. "Thank the Green Ladies for that," Bilbo grumbled tiredly. He slid the bolt on the lock shut, not because he was suspicious of his unwanted guests but because he'd had enough of dwarrows to last him a lifetime.

It took the last of his strength to shuffle to the bed. Bilbo dropped onto it with a whoosh of breath, his body heavy. He leaned against the posts of his bed, staring blankly at the far wall. By the Valar, he was exhausted. It had to be well past midnight, and all the excitement just made the night seem even longer. This evening in itself was more than enough adventure for him!

"Adventure. Hahaaa…" his rueful chuckle trailed off in a jaw-cracking yawn. "No adventures here. No… not… not at all."

And yet rather than crawl completely into bed, he simply sat there, listening and feeling as thirteen dwarrows and one wizard moved about his home. They were quiet now; eerily quiet when compared to the raucous earlier in the evening. As relieving as it should have been, Bilbo found it… worrying.

And then it started.

It was the harmony that Bilbo heard first. The spiritual ringing that had bothered the hobbit so much abruptly quieted, and shifted. The moment of tension made the hairs on the back of Bilbo's neck stand on end and chills run down his spine. It was like something had slotted into place, and what was before a cacophony of noise was now a single reverbing tone, a steady ebb and flow of multiple chimes in beautiful harmony.

The singing came secondary. A single low – so deep and clear – tone rose up around the ethereal accompaniment, soon joined by more voices.

"_The pines were roaring,  
__Upon the height…  
__The winds were moaning,  
__In the night…"_

His chest clenched tight as he listened. This was not a song of glories past. This was a song of mourning and remembrance. The dwarrows were solemn as they sang into the night, and though the song itself was short, the echoing ring continued for a long time after. It was a sad, grief-stricken sound. Bilbo sat there in his lonely bedroom, listening to it long into the night.

Until eventually slumber took him, still leaning against the bed post.

* * *

Though Bilbo was certain that it was the sunlight spilling through the window that first broke him from his dreams, it was the silence that truly woke him. At some point during the night he had slipped down onto the bed, and was now lying sideways with his feet still dangling off the end. He stayed there for a few moments, staring blindly at the far wall, not sure whether to trust what his own senses and Sense were telling him.

Bag-End was utterly quiet.

Slowly, Bilbo sat up. His back popped in several places after falling asleep in such an awkward position, making him wince. The sound seemed even louder in the morning's still air. If he concentrated, he'd most certainly be able to hear the birds chirping high up in the oak tree on top of the Hill, or the sound of the Shire itself and perhaps even other hobbits as they went about their business nearby.

But Bilbo had no interest in that. All he cared about was the sudden, uncomfortable silence. It was almost laughable to think about, and Bilbo chided himself for it as he crept out of the room and through the halls. Silence had been a familiar companion to him since his parent's deaths. He'd never had any siblings, and while he had no shortage of relatives or friends, he didn't entertain them often. Silence was often welcomed, and treasured. But now…

There was no one.

The rooms were all emptied. The beds made and the extra bedding folded and placed back exactly where they belonged. The furniture was put back into place. The dishes were in their cupboards. The floor had been cleaned. If not for his depressingly empty pantry, Bilbo would have thought the night before had been nothing but a dream.

And so Bilbo Baggins found himself standing in his empty parlor, the silence that he had become so accustomed to over the last near decade now suffocating and alien. His own breathing was far too loud in his ears now that Bag-End wasn't filled with talking and laughter and the presence of fourteen others. "Ah," Bilbo uttered, anything he had wanted to say forgotten as he flinched. His voice now seemed to echo off the curved, comfortable walls of his home. Had it always been like that?

Had Bag-End always felt this empty after his parents' deaths? It was a strange thought to him, as Bilbo had more good memories than bad of Bag-End. Its halls were filled with memories of his childhood and his parents: of them teaching him all the joys of life and cooking and gardening; of his father sitting with him in his study (now Bilbo's study) and reading to him; of his mother telling him of her adventures, all sparkling lights of her soul and secretive smiles…

His breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening in a way it hadn't since he'd buried his father, and then his mother only a year and a half later.

Had he always felt so alone…?

The rush of anxiety continued to build within him, until Bilbo found himself trembling. No. No! He had been perfectly happy! Perfectly content to go about his life without doing anything particularly Tookish at all!

But now…

Something out of place caught his eye. The blasted contract sat there on his footstool, the end of it presented as if it had been waiting for him. _Signed: Thorin son of Thrain_, it read. _Witnessed: Balin son of Fundin._

And below that…

_Burglar:_

Was it the word itself that seemed to bore into his mind, or the blank space next to it? Bilbo gazed at it for a long, long moment. All the reasons he'd come up with, all the denials, they were strangely… quiet. And so…

And so Bilbo Baggins found himself sprinting from his house a mere few minutes later, after having thrown on the first jacket and waistcoat in his wardrobe and hastily throwing some belongings into his long-neglected camping pack, the signed contract waving behind him as he raced down the paths of the Shire.

* * *

The Shire had been nothing but a colossal waste of time. And that realization only soured Thorin's mood further. He'd spoken little since rising at dawn with the rest of his Company past ordering them to clean up the halfling's home and pack up. Luckily the others – including his rambunctious nephews – had been too groggy to attempt conversation. Thorin had been left relatively to his own thoughts as they trudged back through the Shire towards where they had stabled their ponies. If any of them guessed at the turn those thoughts were taking, no one said anything. Though Thorin was sure he'd glimpsed Balin looking at him in concern when he believed Thorin wasn't watching.

His old friend certainly knew of the doubts that swirled around his head. But, thankfully, he didn't say anything of that either. Not that Thorin could be blamed for having doubts at such an ill-prepared start to their quest, but maintaining morale was his duty as leader.

Still, not one thing had seemed to go _right _for them thus far. He'd intended to leave the Shire with a small army not far behind them, and with a much larger Company. Instead only twelve had stepped forward, and only three of whom Thorin had been surprised at. The brothers Ri (though Ori was under Balin's tutelage) were not particularly close to him. But they had joined him for whatever reason, and Thorin was grateful for it. He wanted, badly in fact, to be angry with his people for not coming with him to reclaim their homeland. Many of the warriors who had touted being the bravest and most loyal had backed away from his offer.

But they had seen this twice before – with his grandfather in Khazad-dûm and his father on this very same mission. Two rulers who led their people on foolhardy quests only to result in countless deaths. Their pride had been humbled, and now they were more concerned with their continued survival.

Beneath his doubts and anger, Thorin couldn't blame them for that.

His kin from the other kingdoms, however, he could blame. His plea for aid had been made with incredulity, scorn, and scathing laughter. Dain's response had stung the most, his cousin pulling him aside as the congregation broke so he could offer him not men or loyalty, but supplies for his people.

"_If you're havin' a bad year, cousin, I would gladly send goods. Is it ore y'need? Or food?"_

Thorin's hands clenched on the reins. Soothed, as if he were a squalling dwarfling or a panicky tween! The very thought still made him burn with shame. With only thirteen men and the burglar Gandalf had promised, their journey was looking bleaker by the minute. He could only hope that Nori would be enough in the end. If by some miracle of willpower or providence they even managed to make it to the Mountain.

"You left the contract as I asked, Balin?" The wizard's voice drew Thorin out of his thoughts, his head turning to listen closer.

"I did," Balin replied crisply. "Though I do not see what good it will do."

"Give it time," Gandalf chuckled.

His lips twitched in a sneer, and he turned to call back over his shoulder. "_Master Baggins_ has already made his choice clear."

"As I said, there is much more to Bilbo Baggins than he himself knows. He will turn up soon."

"Skittish l'il thing like 'im?" he heard Nori scoff from farther back. "'E would faint at th'idea!" Mention at the halfling's fainting spell had most of the Company snickering.

"I'd like t'see 'im come along," Bofur cut in. "He was fun."

"'E won't."

The behatted dwarf turned slightly in his saddle to smirk toothily at Nori. "Care f'r a wager, then?" The magic word had been uttered, and what followed was a swell of shouts as the Company placed bets. Thorin only shook his head when he was offered a place in the wager. It was a useless bet in the first place. Of course the halfling wasn't going to show up. He had been unwelcoming from start to finish, his unwillingness clear in every word and action. A soft little being that lived a soft, comfortable little life had not place in the harsh wilds. Dwalin had been right about that.

"I said it. Didn't I say it? Coming here was a waste of time." Dori's words were faint form the back of the Company, but they echoed Thorin's earlier thoughts exactly.

"That's true enough," Glóin mumbled back.

"Ridiculous notion. Use a hobbit? A halfling? Whose idea was it anyway?"

Kíli's bright laughter answered. "That mean you're betting against him, Dori?"

"Well I-"

"Wait! _Wait!_" The voice registered before the words did, but still Thorin pulled his mount to a stop. His lungs squeezed tight in surprise, and he could do nothing but turn to stare dumbly as _Bilbo Baggins_ came sprinting up to them with the contract waving behind him.

"I signed it!" he was exclaiming. "I… here." The halfling slowed to a stop by Balin, offering up the parchment for him to examine.

What a… what a strange little creature. Thorin's eyes flicked to the wizard, and was displeased to find the man staring at him with an insufferably self-satisfied smile. The dwarf king returned it with a hard glare, just in time to hear Balin announce: "Everything appears to be in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield."

The halfling nodded, eyes darting to the ponies uncertainly, and to the dwarrows riding them even more so. It was only when those eyes turned to him that Thorin remembered how to speak. "Get him a pony," he spat gruffly, quickly turning away and tapping the pony's sides to start off once more.

"More than any of you know," Gandalf reminded him quietly as Thorin's pony trotted past. Thorin scowled, but refused to answer.

**End Chapter 2. Walk on, Traveler of Worlds.**

* * *

This chapter was basically an exercise in the realization that I writing Bilbo is easy for me. But writing Thorin is like pulling teeth. 8I I've rewritten that last scene about three times!

But hello! And oh my goodness, the feedback from all of you is AMAZING. Thank you all SO MUCH and I hope you enjoy finally reading the next chapter! Next chapter will be less reshuffling the events of the movie and more new material, hopefully. But the scenes inside Bag-End were needed to set up some plot elements. :3 Happy reading!


End file.
